


Shards

by stilljustbitten



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pain, That's it, self-harm (kind of), that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilljustbitten/pseuds/stilljustbitten
Summary: On all fours in a puddle of expensive rum on New Year’s Eve, Martín finally breaks down.--Martín's first New Year's Eve without Andrés.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Shards

Martín looks at the clock on his microwave oven across the room. 11:38.

It’s already pretty loud outside with the fireworks. After all, he lives in an apartment close to the city. He’s been forced to listen to people around him celebrating the whole evening, he even ended up putting on some loud music himself because he couldn’t stand the annoying bass from the neighbor’s electronic music. So he put on some of the music from his youth. Some of the music that he used to dance to.

He tried to ignore it, he really did. It’s been a shitty year. He would have liked to just go to bed, not even paying the year attention by saying a final goodbye. Just to sleep and wake up to a new year. 

After all, this isn’t a special night. It just happens to be the last one before someone decided that the year was going to end, and now everyone attaches too much meaning to it. His logic tells him that this night is like every other night, he’s a man of science, after all. 

But his mind wouldn’t listen, and he ended up showering for the first time in weeks. He even threw his robe in the laundry and putting on a suit. A black suit, so it didn’t feel too much like a celebration, but a suit nonetheless. It doesn’t fit him like it used to, and he had to punch another hole in the belt for it to be useful. But for just a fraction of a second, he felt more human than he did for the past six months. 

Then it dawned on him that he was still alone, that no one would care how he was dressed or that he put on cologne just for the occasion. 

Now he sits at his dining table in his damn black suit, smelling good, and surrounded by bottles. And somehow that makes it feel even worse to be alone. 

The problem is, after all these months of intensive drinking, alcohol doesn’t do the trick anymore. It used to dull his senses, to make everything easier. But the more he has been drinking, the more his body got used to it, and the more it takes for it to actually have an effect.

He never stopped trying, though. He still tries, especially tonight, which explains the amount of bottles on the table. But he hasn’t succeeded in drowning the lump in his throat which has just grown bigger the closer to midnight he got. 

When the clock shows 12:00 and the whole city erupts in light and noise outside his windows, he kind of wants to open his curtains and take a look outside. After all, it’s beautiful in its own way. Or at least it used to be. But somehow he’s afraid that it would feel too festive. That it wouldn’t match the feeling inside him. That if he turned his eyes to the sky, watching the explosions of red, green, and gold, he would still just feel empty inside. 

That he would be reminded of all the people out there, celebrating, being with the ones they love. Everything that he’s been robbed of. 

That he would be reminded of all the past New Year’s he has actually enjoyed. The celebrations with his family when he was a kid, when fireworks were the most magical thing he had ever seen. He would be staring out the window with his dad by his side, patiently answering all of Martín’s curious questions about how fireworks were made and what gave them their colors. 

When he got older, he would start joining the grown-ups outside, lighting small firecrackers, safely equipped and protected.

When he got old enough to no longer want to celebrate with his parents, he would finally get the possibility to experiment with the heavier stuff. He would try making his own explosives with his friends from the university. They would spend their night blowing up stuff and drinking, not having a care in the world.

But most of all he is afraid that he would be reminded of the New Year’s he has spent with him. With Andrés. 

He still remembers the very first one they spent together. They weren’t close back then, but Andrés had casually invited him to come to a friend’s house. It turned out to be a really huge and fancy party with free food and drinks, and the two of them spent most of the night in each others’ company, talking and figuring out the many interests they shared. They kind of just stuck together since then. 

Until suddenly, half a year ago, they didn’t. 

He reaches for the beautifully shaped bottle standing at the center of the table. The bottle of 50-year-old Appleton Estate rum that Andrés gave to him. When he lays his fingers on it, he tries to pretend that it isn’t anything special, but his hand is already shaking. He’s been waiting for the right occasion to open it, but he knows that there will never be an occasion special enough. So he decides that tonight is it. 

After all, this will be the first New Year’s Eve they’ve spent apart since they met. 

He opens it gently, stupidly aware of treating the bottle the right way because he knows that if— if he had been there, he would have demanded him to be careful. _They only produced 800 bottles, Martín. Make sure to treat it with the respect it deserves._ Then he takes a brand new glass from the back of his cabinet because he wouldn’t risk destroying the taste by mixing it up with whatever was in his glass before.

He pours himself some of the golden liquid and tries to appreciate the sight of it, to have it feel special. But it doesn’t. It feels like pouring anything, some of the cheap rum he drank earlier, and he feels the anger rise inside him. He isn’t even able to enjoy this, Andrés didn’t give it to him just so he could pour it down his throat without savoring it. The aroma, the hue, the taste. He owes him this.

His shaky hand holds the glass in front of him when he inhales deeply and tries to focus. To at least enjoy this moment. The smell is exquisite, he’ll admit that. The light from the only lamp in the room shines through the glass, bringing forth the golden color.

When he takes the first gulp, equally wanting to enjoy it and to get it over with, it reminds him so much of Andrés that he almost chokes on it. They should have enjoyed this together. Andrés surely gave this to him with the intention of sharing it with him, just like they shared everything else. And now he’s no longer here. This is wrong.

The burning sensation down his throat tastes a whole lot like the loneliness he has tried keeping at bay the entire evening. It was supposed to push back the lump in his throat which he has been fighting for hours, but instead, it just fuels it. 

_“Andrés, you shouldn’t have—”_

_“Of course I should. I thought about you the minute I laid eyes on it, it was inevitable.”_

_It’s not like he knows anything about rum in particular, but Andrés has talked about this one a couple of times, and he knows how much it meant to him._

_“Plus it was quite the challenge to get my hands on it, and who doesn’t enjoy a bit of a thrill?”_

_So it was definitely not store-bought._

_“Just make sure to save it for a special occasion”, Andrés says and pulls Martín in for a hug._

The warmth from the alcohol spreading in his stomach feels like it’s trying to destroy him from the inside. It’s a decade of memories, a decade of friendship, of something _more_ than friendship, going nowhere. A feeling of something he will never get back, something he will never have with anyone again.

Andrés should have been here with him tonight, like he has been with him for the past ten years, when one year ended and another one began. When there was still something to celebrate, when they knew that at the beginning of the new year, no matter what happened, they would have each other.

This year is just going to be another year without Andrés, and it’s not worth celebrating. It’s not even worth going through.

He doesn’t want to go through it.

In the midst of the world around him exploding in New Year’s kisses, empty resolutions and flashes in the sky, he slings the bottle through the room. As soon as it leaves his hand, even before he watches it smash against the wall, it rips at his heart. 

_What have I done?_

“No. No, no, no.”

He stumbles up from his chair and hurries across the room. The golden liquid is everywhere. It’s staining the wall, the furniture around him. Small golden specks. Running down the wall, ending in a golden puddle on the floor. Motionless, he stares at the mess before getting on his knees in front of the puddle.

“Shit.”

A felling of guilt washes over him. The small shards of glass mixed with the rum reflects in the dim light, catching his attention. Without knowing the exact reason, he places a shaky hand in the puddle. Maybe it is an attempt to feel one last connection with Andrés, because in a strange way, this feels so final.

“I’m sorry, Andrés.” 

The emotion builds in his stomach and bubbles all the way up, erupting in hoarse sobs. Burning his throat.

His hand curls into a fist, grasping at the liquid. It isn’t a deliberate movement as much as it’s his body’s reaction to the pain inside him, everything curling in on itself. He feels like he is going to implode, darkness clouding his vision, every muscle in his body strained. 

With his fingers clenched tight around the shards in his hand, he finally feels it. The pain from the small pieces of glass piercing his skin, the sting from the alcohol seeping into the cuts, sending signals to his brain.

The physical pain does the trick. 

On all fours in a puddle of expensive rum on New Year’s Eve, Martín finally breaks down. The rum soaks through the fabric on his knees when his sobs get louder, turning into screams. He doesn’t recognize the sounds coming from him, but he feels the release following them. 

He has no idea how long he has been on the floor, but the fireworks outside have stopped, and his knees are hurting. Nothing compared to his hand, though. He snaps back into reality when he sees the blood mixing with the golden rum and inhales.

When he gets up, he feels hollow inside, like all of the screams leaving his body took away any feeling he ever had. Nothing but the throbbing pain of his right hand remains.

It takes him a lot of time and effort to remove the pieces of glass from his hand, with him being drunk and his eyes swollen after the crying. Thankfully he doesn’t have to face himself looking like that, because he made a decision months ago to destroy the mirror, and he’s never regretted it. 

After sloppily wrapping his hand in a bandage he returns to the living room. The silence is deafening even though the music is still playing. With his eyes lingering on the glass in front of him he slumps down on the chair. He’s tired in a way he doesn’t recognize, both his mind and his body. 

His eyes don’t leave the half-empty glass for a long time. The feeling of guilt is still there, but distant this time. Like it’s hovering over him, not quite getting to him.

Hesitantly, he traces the edge of the glass with his index finger.

“I know I failed you, Andrés. I’m sorry.”

With his eyes closed, as if not to face reality, he drinks the rest of the rum. The warmt feels different this time.

This year is going to be the first whole year without Andrés. Maybe next New Year’s Eve, it will be easier.

**Author's Note:**

> I was having some _feelings_ on New Year's Eve, and this is the result.  
> I hope it was painful to read ;)


End file.
